Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Being the amazing friend that she is, Talia already offered to loan me the money to cover the credit card bill. Twice, in fact. I thanked her for the willingness to help but assured her that I would figure this out on my own. In fact, the second time, I told her that I would sell my soul to the devil before I took her savings. I think she believed me when I started listing all the heinous things I would let him do to me for the 10K, which must be why she hasn’t offered again.
“That’s good.” She knows it’s not, but her support is still appreciated. “How was the game last night?”
Okay, guess we’re digging right into the nitty-gritty without lube.
I blink hard a few times, letting my eyes adjust to find Talia on the couch, where she’s curled up in a nest of blankets, coffee mug cradled in her hands and covered by a handknit mug cozy that one of her patients made. It always makes her smile, but today her face is the picture of worry.
“We won.” She doesn’t give a shit about the team standings, so “win or lose” isn’t what she’s really asking. She wants to know what happened when I saw Griffin, when he saw me, and whether there were fireworks or a nuclear bomb in that moment. But that answer does actually lie somewhere in the game report.
“Aaand . . .”
I don’t know how to explain last night’s game to a non-hockey person. Griffin had been on a rampage, spending way more time than usual in the penalty box and going after people more than the puck. The highlight moment—or technically a lowlight one—was when he fixed a dislocated finger on the jumbotron. I gasped at the gruesome sight, and Layla jerked her head my way, demanding to know what the hell I’d done to our boy.
Ours, as in the Hawks. Because he’s not mine, not in any way that matters. He made that abundantly clear when I asked if he hated me and he didn’t have an answer. I wasn’t looking for him to confess some deep, dark, long-hidden love for me. Simply non-hate. Yet, after five years of family holidays, countless pregame meals, helping me move, and dozens of other interactions, he couldn’t do that. After reciting what I’d been wearing the day we met and screwing me stupid, he couldn’t say, I guess you’re kinda-sorta-maybe all right–ish sometimes.
What the hell was up with that? It’s not like I’m a stage-five clinger by any stretch, but some human decency and manners are the bare minimum. And I do mean bare minimum. My actual standards are considerably higher. Giving in to lust had been a moment of weakness on my part. I’m chalking it up to the unexpected chemistry in that first real kiss, and then the firestorm between us when Griffin asked if his kiss felt like hate. For the record, no, it did not. It felt . . . hot, sexy, and exciting in a way I’d never considered. Mostly because I’ve never considered Griffin to be anything other than Dominic’s asshole friend.
The last few days, though? Oh, I’ve been doing some considering. Lots of it. But it would take more than a good dicking for me to accept the way Griffin treated me after. I don’t know what it’d take, and honestly, I hope to never find out. Because, again, I have standards.
“Let’s say he threw himself into his work the way I’ve been throwing myself into mine,” I finally answer Talia.
“Shiiit. Are the other guys still breathing?”
“Probably. Guess we’ll find out tonight when we do it all again.” I hold my hands up, shaking invisible poms, and fake a smile that feels more like a grimace than anything remotely cheery. I will definitely have to get my act together before tonight’s rematch against the Torches, or Layla will bench me.
“I don’t envy them. Or you. Physical battering? Emotional?” She holds out her hands, weighing the two options and not finding an obvious loser. Or winner.
“Gee, thanks, what would I do without your analytical breakdown of the situation,” I say wryly. Luckily, Talia’s a great friend and doesn’t hold my bitchiness against me . . . too much. She simply tilts her head, giving me that trademark Mom stare that asks, You done yet?
And yes, I am. I need to pull my head out of my ass and start focusing on the positive here, like . . . I’ve sold enough to make the minimum payment on my credit card bill. I had a stellar orgasm that wasn’t machine made. I have a new favorite ice cream shop and a potential shopping ground of new pawnshops. I won’t have to sit across from Griffin at any more family dinners or pregame meals if he knows what’s good for him.